Wishbone
by deletrear
Summary: If a wishbone breaks evenly in half, both people get their wish. [Lily Evans' twin sister & raising Harry fic.]
1. Chapter 1

Poppy dreamt.

There was a woman sitting in a chair. Hanging around her head was a covering of clouds so thick it completely obstructed the top half of her face. Poppy would recognize that chin blind, and knew those red threads of hair tumbled over Lily's sturdy set of shoulders; strong enough to hold back the world.

She sat docile, hands folded in her lap. The clouds did not disperse. Her voice, when it sounded, came from very far away—

"Poppy?"

Poppy blinked. The clouds darkened with the threat of thunder: again, the sound—

"Poppy, I know it's you. Stop hiding."

She tried to move forward, but for all her walking it brought her no closer to the other woman. "Lil, I don't know what's happening. I can't get to you."

"I need your help!" The clouds thinned; Lily threw her head back in agony and yelled, thrashing in her seat, "No, not him! Not Harry! Please, I'm begging you, take me instead—"

Poppy ran, and wanted to run, and saw that she was getting closer. She pushed herself. She threw her hand out, "Lily!"

Lily screamed, a terrible shuddering note that rippled across the dark space. The clouds disappeared, and Lily looked back at Poppy, her eyes blindingly bright, arm moving—

Poppy snatched for her outstretched hand. She felt the barest whisper of contact, and then her fingers closed around nothing.

Nothing could be a big word, sometimes.

The space went dead silent. Poppy could not even hear the sound of her own breathing, nor her heartbeat. Not a breeze or a rustle in the darkness, which stretched endlessly in mockery of the desperate way Poppy now searched through it.

Lily was gone. Lily had disappeared into the dark. Poppy cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted her name, only for the sound to be swallowed by the nothing before it could go anywhere. She searched for hours or minutes or days.

Exhausted, Poppy collapsed to her knees. She felt frozen. Her limbs were stiff, and she felt like there was something stuck in her throat, an inhale, perhaps. Poppy ducked her head.

Slippered feet appeared before her.

There Lily was, standing tall, in nothing more than her pajamas. Her copper hair fell in waves over her shoulders. Tears wet her cheeks, still round with the same baby fat Poppy hadn't shed.

"Go home," Lily told her. Her eyes were frigid. "I've never asked for it and meant it the way I do right now."

"I have nothing there," said Poppy.

Lily knocked two knuckles against Poppy's forehead. "Pops, go home."

Before Poppy could ask _why_, she was awake. Her blankets were suffocating on her, but Poppy was paralysed and shivering underneath them and couldn't do anything about it.

She forced her head to the side. The clock on the bedside table blared the number and date: _11:33 PM, OCT 31. _Hallowe'en.

The chill abated slowly. Poppy laid, shivering and sweating in the dark, listening to the crooning sounds of Édith Piaf coming from the room beside her. Her sheets smelled like red wine: she must have spilled some before she went to sleep.

It must have given her bad dreams.

_No more drinking before bed,_ Poppy told herself. She turned over and covered her head with a pillow. She would write Lily when she returned home.

* * *

Poppy Darlene Evans was thoroughly enjoying a croissant and a pot of Earl Grey.

Her sister would call it overindulgence and tut about her weight, but which one of them was in France again? A few extra stones was nothing compared to this sense of peace and satisfaction. Paris was beautiful, discounting the stench of dog shit, and Poppy would visit next year if she were able.

A man wearing a bowler hat and a long, tailored coat scampered through the crowded cafe. It was mostly full of tourists, so he stood out among the khaki shorts and fanny packs. There was a posh paper bag clutched in his hands. Poppy waved, catching his attention. His stressed face lightened. "I see you've taken it upon yourself to order."

"Yes, it's delightful. Would you like a taste?"

He sat across from her and leaned in. Poppy slid the plate until it knocked into his hands. "Oh, okay," He said gamely. He hummed, pleased, upon taking a bite of the beautiful pastry.

Her friend, Cypress Williams, the sponsor of this particular trip, had been her coworker for several years now. Almost three, she thought. They weren't very close, but he had the markings of a respectable man, so when he asked if she wanted to come with him to Paris for two weeks, Poppy leapt on the opportunity.

Once he ate his share—with gusto, leaving her to finish the tea—he placed the bag on the table. _Cartier_. They walked past the jewellery store on the way. By his interest, Poppy wasn't surprised he doubled back to purchase something.

Poppy dabbed at her mouth daintily. "And what is this?"

He pulled out a velvet purple box. "A gift," said Cypress, putting it between them. "Open it."

Inside was a collar necklace, outfitted with three rows of pearls and another row of small, polished rubies. Her favourite stone. It was bewitching, and Poppy carefully kept her fingers to herself. It obviously cost a fortune. "How much?"

"Price is of no concern," Cypress bragged. He wore tailored suits and oxfords to the grocery store when he could be convinced to buy his own food. Of course, money was just a number to him. "Do you like it?"

"It's beautiful," she conceded.

"Gorgeous," he corrected. He tugged at the cuffs of his suit. Cypress was so nervous he forgot to remove his hat before sitting. He did so then, face turning pink. "Do you consider it a suitable gift?"

"A marvelous one," Poppy took a long draw from her teacup. "Jessamine will adore it."

Cypress faltered, fingers twitching. He said, "Ah, yes. Jessamine."

"Is there an anniversary coming up?"

"Not as such," he hedged, "Jessamine—well, she has enough necklaces to last her in Britain—"

"What's one more from her lovely husband?" Poppy interrupted. She decisively closed the box, pushing it back to his side of the table. "Is that why you invited me along, Cypress? So I could assist you with picking a gift for her?"

Cypress was clearly wondering if she was being difficult on purpose or if the oblivious act was, perhaps, not one at all. She wondered which he preferred: the out, or the challenge. He was a respectable man, wealthy and well-mannered. But he was a very poor husband, and Poppy rather liked that in men.

"It seems that way, doesn't it?" And he tugged again on his cuffs. "But—no, no, I intended the necklace as a gift to you, Poppy. To express my gratitude to you for coming with me."

Challenge it was.

"What are friends for?" She said, and smiled.

"You are a spectacular companion. As my friend, I could not ask for better. You see…" He swallowed audibly, here, "Jessamine and I have been experiencing… difficulties lately. It's why she didn't want to come, but I couldn't waste the tickets and she rather likes you as well, Poppy. She would approve of you and me—being here, together. The necklace is an example of my gratitude. For… for accompanying me to the city of, of love."

"Such gratitude," Poppy hummed. She reached out and reclaimed the box. His shoulders relaxed as she stroked the line of rubies. "If this is how you spoil your friends, I imagine that Jessamine is a lucky woman, Cypress."

"I'm glad you think so."

Poppy placed it in her purse. She stood, and Cypress rose as well, hastily putting his hat back on and extending his arm. Poppy pretended she didn't see it as she walked away.

He quickly caught up, undeterred. "And where to now? Do you have any ideas?"

"Some. They can wait another day. For now, I'd like to return to my room. I need to change my shoes." Her heels were not efficient on the old cobblestones.

"Very well," Cypress said, offering his arm again. Poppy, amused, placed her hand on his elbow. The married ones were so persistent. "Are you interested in visiting the museum later? I've heard good things about it."

"We'll see."

The walk was filled with talk of his work. Coworkers, she called them, and it was true in the loosest of terms. Poppy was a receptionist at the company Cypress owned: not _his_, of course, but one of them. There was a receptionist on each level of the building. Poppy looked after Mr. Howard, the director of R&D.

Once they arrived at her room, across the hall from his, Poppy left him at the door. Her suitcase was laid out on her unmade bed, unzipped as she left it.

With a great sigh, Poppy kicked off her heels. They landed near the bathroom door next to some socks and the dress she discarded last night. She collapsed on a stark white ottoman, thumbs digging into her blistering feet.

Poppy glared down at the red skin. "Oh, tits."

Trainers it was.

Poppy peeled herself out of her red dress, switching it out for something warmer. Some jeans, the blue blouse he once complimented, and a thick coat an ex gifted her, made in Italy. November in France was chilly, though nothing like home.

She freshened up her makeup before snatching up her purse and going to the door. Poppy hesitated, then looked through the peephole. Cypress was shifting nervously outside, checking his watch periodically, lifting and dropping his hat. A maid walked by and he hid his face by checking his shiny shoes for scuff marks.

This was his first time. Poppy would have to switch jobs when she was done.

She went to join him in the hallway when her phone rang. Poppy leapt out of her skin. She answered the hotel landline with a huffed, "Hello?"

Instead of the polite, accented English she expected, it was a British voice that answered her. "_Poppy."_

"Sister!" Poppy said, voice light. "I'm surprised you called. You don't usually like to involve yourself in my antics. What's the dire news, then? I assume someone died since you're picking up the phone and ringing _me_."

She laughed, but the other line went chillingly silent. And then—ragged breathing. Like she was trying not to cry. Poppy knew the sound.

Suddenly, humour was the last thing on her mind. Poppy sat down. "What? What happened?"

"_Lily—"_ She started, and stopped.

The air was sucked out of the room. No. It couldn't be.

"Tuney," Poppy said, voice low. Her sister hiccupped. In the background was the splitting cries of a baby, but that hitching, laboured breathing was louder. "Tell me."

Petunia inhaled, and unevenly said, "_Lily's dead."_

The world tilted. Poppy dug her free hand into the blankets, catching on the threads, and tried not to fall over. "That's not funny,"

"_It's not a joke!"_ Petunia snapped, before gasping. They sat on the line quietly before she could continue, "_You have to come home. Poppy, I need you to come back. To stay."_

Petunia tried often to shackle Poppy in one spot. She had a brief thought that this was another twisted attempt at that, but upon further consideration, it didn't make any sense. Not when Poppy could send a letter and bring the farce down around her ears.

"How?" She asked. Her voice broke on the question.

"_Some… some typical magical nonsense… murder, I think it said. The—the letter. I have a letter. Come back, and you can read it."_

"A letter?"

"_Explaining how… oh, my..." _And she sobbed, dry, before taking a steadying breath. The babe cried louder. "_Vernon, please—"_

Poppy's sister was murdered. It was in a letter. She was going to be sick. "Her husband?"

"_Dead," _Petunia said. "_Both of them."_

Both of them. It danced around her brain, something odd about it, before Poppy finally grasped the issue. Both, meaning two. There were _three_ members of the Potter family. Another cry, and the muffled sound of Vernon shouting: Petunia must have covered the receiver with her hand. Three members.

Petunia received a letter saying Lily was… murdered. What if that wasn't the only thing she received tonight?

"Harry? Where is Harry?"

"_With me," _was the displeased reply. "_I can't take him. I don't—he has her eyes, Poppy. And the same… You need to come back. You need to stay."_

"Doesn't he have a godfather?"

"_Neither can take him in. Something about—how long will you be? Poppy, how long? He has to be with a blood relative of… hers. If it isn't me—"_

Blood relative. Poppy was an orphan these days, her uncle died years ago due to pancreatic cancer, and she'd never met either grandparents. It was her, Lily, and Petunia since she graduated.

Her and Petunia, now.

"I'll take the first flight back," Poppy said. Petunia whimpered, relieved beyond words. "Tuney, look after him until I get there."

"_Of course I will!"_

"Tuney. I mean it. I know that you and…"

"_How dare you? Just get here," _Petunia snapped. She hung up. Poppy kept the phone to her ear, numb to the obnoxious dial tone. Dead? Her Lily?

Cypress knocked furiously, calling, "Are you alright in there, Poppy?"

Poppy stumbled to the door. His smile dropped when he saw her pale complexion. He steadied her with his hands on her arms. "Did something happen?"

Yes. Yes, something had.

"I need to go home," Poppy rasped right before she vomited on his two thousand pound shoes.


	2. Chapter 2

Little Whinging was columns of identical houses and meticulous lawns.

The exterior of number four Privet Drive was untouched by the madness within. Same clipped grass, same primped flower beds, same, same, same. This wasn't a place for self-discovery; unless you were Petunia, that was, and the only identity for you involved ankle-length khaki skirts and casserole for dinner every night. Poppy didn't buy into it herself.

She parked in the empty spot in the driveway and climbed out. This close, you could hear a little noise. A television turned up to its maximum volume; beneath that, the fussing of two babies.

Poppy stood there long enough for neighbours to suspiciously peer at her from their windows. Any longer, and the police would be called. Prissy lot.

Poppy knocked three times in quick succession. Within seconds the door was thrown open. Petunia's thin arm pulled her inside with a hissed, "_Hurry up_!"

"Tuney—"

"Do you have a baby seat?"

"I… yes. Are you alright?"

Petunia Dursley's thin blonde hair, normally cliched back tightly, was loose and haggard. There were thick purple rings of exhaustion around her flat eyes, her pointy face drooping. Her maternal glow, which dimmed some time after she brought Dudley home, seemed, finally, to have worn off entirely. Her blouse wasn't even buttoned properly.

Those clawed fingers tightened on Poppy's arm.

Somewhere upstairs, another scream.

"Constant," Petunia sneered. "He has been crying for two days _straight_. Vernon and I are going mad, and Dudder's hasn't been able to get any sleep with the fuss that child is putting up—"

Like that, Poppy was finished with the conversation.

She looked past Petunia, up the set of stairs, and asked, "Which room is he in? I'll take him off your hands."

Petunia pursed her lips. "Follow the shrieking," she told her, storming into the kitchen.

Drama queen.

Harry was sequestered in the first bedroom to the right. Poppy opened the door, which momentarily stuck on a plastic toy, and winced at the bleeding level of his cries. If it was bad outside, in front of the source she thought she would go deaf.

"Harry, Harry, it's okay," she tried. Poppy hadn't looked after a child this distressed before: she didn't know what to do. She shushed and talked to him, but he didn't seem interested in anything other than banging on the crib he was locked in.

So, Poppy came in closer, half considering taking him out at least, when Harry opened his eyes and stopped her in her tracks.

Petunia was right on the money. He had her eyes. _But that's all_, Poppy reminded herself, as if it were some small thing.

The babe was light brown, his father's heritage strong, with the same stern brow and strong nose. His face was bisected with a pale scar, unusually shaped like forks of lightning. It was no ordinary scar, fitting for an extraordinary situation. Poppy told herself to breathe.

Harry flung his arms up high and said, "Mummy!"

Her blood went cold.

Poppy made herself pick him up. She didn't know how to hold him, but Harry didn't care. He cried into her shirt for several long minutes.

Eventually, Petunia came in. She handed Poppy a bottle full of lukewarm formula and said, "Feed the little monster."

There was another in her hand, presumably for Dudley.

Poppy sat down and rearranged an uncooperative Harry so he was sitting up in her lap. She only had to push the nip against his lips before he was greedily sucking the bottle into his mouth. He drank like he was starving, hands desperately curled around the shape of it. Watching him made her anxious—was he going to make himself sick? Why was he so hungry? Petunia was looking after him, right?

As he feasted, she looked around.

His crib was hastily prepared and looked a bit loose, either from carelessness or the beating Harry put it through. Toys scattered the floor, none of them sitting neatly in the shelves where they belonged. Pillow feathers, too—they looked as if they exploded. The far right wall had a hole in it.

"What on earth…" Poppy muttered. She would ask Petunia later.

Harry fell asleep before he finished his bottle. She took it from him, carefully tucking him into his bed, praying desperately that he wouldn't wake up. It was a close call when she pried his fingers off from her shirt.

She tiptoed to the living room. Dudley was on the floor playing with his green truck, Petunia watching him like a hawk. She was still rumpled, but didn't seem frantic anymore. Her brown eyes pinned Poppy on the last step.

"Cry himself to sleep, did he?"

"Has he before?"

"Every night," Petunia sighed.

"And there was nothing you could do to stop that?" Poppy asked coolly. Her big sister narrowed her eyes warningly. "What happened to his room?"

"It's Dudley's," she corrected. "His toy room. We moved all his favourites into the lounge when we realised… he's like her. With the—the _magic_."

"Tuney," Poppy said lowly, urgent.

Petunia acknowledged her tone, but certainly didn't apologize, nor heed its warning. "His nonsense has been destroying everything since he arrived. There was nothing _to _do. He threw Dudder's toy piano through the wall. How are we going to fix that, or replace the toy? And don't get me started on the pillows: he's made a right mess of the room, the ungrateful…"

"His mother died, Tuney,"

Petunia's nostrils flared. She darted a nervous glance at her son, who was watching them now, bottom lip trembling. "Not in front of him. He's tired, anything will set him off."

Poppy thought the same could be said of Dudley's mother, but said nothing on that. "You mentioned a letter."

Petunia waved her hand contemptuously, dismissing and insulting her in one move. "In the kitchen."

The letter was open on the dining room table, green ink on beige parchment. It read:

_Dear Petunia,_

_The child is your nephew, Harry James Potter. After the events of tonight, he is an orphan. Lily as well as her husband were attacked and murdered in their home by a Dark wizard known as Voldemort—_

"Bloody hell," Poppy gasped, and sat down roughly. Petunia snorted, watching her from the couch, and told her to, "read on."

Poppy returned her attention to the words.

—_who is the figurehead of the opposition. The wizarding world is currently undergoing a war regarding the worth of muggle blood: rather, whether anyone of muggle blood should be allowed to live. As you might suspect, Lily, being a muggleborn herself, opposed Voldemort's regime, oftentimes personally. This made her his enemy. _

_It makes Harry his enemy as well._

_There is no one else who can foster Harry. In the wizarding world, he will be treated as a commodity due to surviving a personal attack from Voldemort. For that reason, and another, I believe it best that Harry be raised by family. He is not safe with his own people, surrounded by fanatics and enemies. _

_The other is this: Lily Potter gave her life and blood to protect Harry and, in doing so, activated an ancient magical defense that will keep Voldemort from harming Harry. Her love is the reason Harry is alive. For the protection of him and you to continue, Harry must live with Lily's blood relative. _

_You, Petunia. Only you—_

"You'd think this fellow didn't know about my existence," Poppy said.

"You're always gone. I don't think a nomadic lifestyle is what Dumbledore is looking for."

That caught her attention. Poppy said, "Dumbledore wrote this? What's her headmaster doing delivering letters of condolences?"

Petunia drummed her fingers on the back of the couch. She glanced at Dudley, inhaled shakily, and said, "Who else would contact us?"

Muggles. Or maybe she meant _me_. Petunia was inherently selfish that way. All the arguments she had with their mum, their baby sister, were because Petunia was used to being the biggest, most important person in the room. When she wasn't… Petunia never was able to move past it. To the wizards, she was an afterthought.

At least she being thought of, thought Poppy. There was no letter in her post.

_The protection will last until he is seventeen, at which point you cannot do anything for him and will not be expected to. If he leaves before he reaches the age of majority, the protection will wear off. People will seek revenge on Harry, and you, his guardian and next-of-kin. Keep him secret, and you will keep your family safe._

_Do this for your sister, Petunia. This is what she would want. You have my sincere apologies for your loss._

_Condolences,_

_Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore_

"Is he going to check on him?"

"Doesn't seem like it. I haven't heard a word from him since Monday."

Poppy looked up. "You didn't call me until yesterday. Monday was five days ago. Petunia."

"I didn't know how to get into contact with you," Petunia said defensively, "Lord almighty, you're _never home_. If you hadn't emailed me about the hotel you were staying in—and don't think I'm very impressed about that mess, tart—I wouldn't have called you until… who knows how long! I'm not Lily; I can't have an owl track you across the continent!"

No, she was not Lily. No one was going to come close. Never was possible—not when she was alive, certainly not now that she was dead.

Poppy felt the weight of that sweep over her.

Her older sister, her only sister left alive, saw the expression. "What do you expect me to do, Pops? Lily was murdered. Some wizard boogeyman killed her in her house on Hallowe'en. Her son is an orphan and a wizard. What… what can I do?"

"He's your nephew."

"He's _yours_. To me, he is her son, and she—she wouldn't want him with me. You know that. You and her… you would have been her godmother, Pops."

Poppy laughed bitterly. "I'm not."

Petunia reached out, grabbed her wrist, and said urgently, "Because you refused to settle. Stay. Adopt him. Buy a house, land yourself a full-time job, and _stay_ _still._ Between the two of us, she would have wanted you to be the one."

If she really wanted that, Poppy would have been named the godmother. Instead, she visited one Christmas after he was born and was limited to nothing but letters. Lily pondered visiting Poppy, but she was always travelling and their schedules never lined up. They'd argued about it countless times before they learned to avoid the topic. In the end, Lily made her choice by rescinding the title of godparent, and Poppy made hers by refusing to send letters beyond formalities.

All Poppy wanted was an apology. For Lily to say she didn't mean what she said: Poppy _was _responsible, she _did _care, of _course_ she was apart of the new life Lily was cutting out for herself. There was room for her; and how stupid could Poppy be to think otherwise?

Yes, Poppy—how stupid?

The owl never came. It never would.

"He called me 'mum,'" she told the other woman, unable to lift her eyes from the floor. "He looked at me and he thought I was her. I'm not. We never… I could never be her."

Petunia looked stricken. "When?"

"Upstairs. Before I picked him up. Cried for Lily, then saw me and thought—well…"

"You're her twin, Poppy,"

"Careful of your tenses there, Tuney."

"Don't—don't you dare start. I need to know: what are you going to do? I can't keep him."

"Why not?" Poppy shot back.

Petunia glowered, "Because I _don't want him_!"

The confession stole her breath away. They sat frozen in the space left behind before Petunia, all at once, bent over the table and laid her forehead on its surface. She shuddered, hiccupped, and began to sob. Dry. If there were any more tears left to spent, it wasn't happening in front of Poppy.

"I don't want him. I don't want him. Please don't make me keep another one, Pops, _please_. You have to take him. Tell me you'll take him. Lily's son can't go to an orphanage, but I don't want to… I can't."

"And I can?" Poppy had never been able to live up to Lily's… Lily-ness, and that was before the magic. "You have a kid, what's one more?"

Petunia looked bleak.

The redhead pried her sister's fingers off from her wrist and stood up. Restlessness buzzed under her skin. "I don't know how to look after anyone, Tuney."

She never had. It made her more like Petunia than Lily was ever able to approve of. Everything always came back to that—Lily's approval, what she thought was right and wrong. If you disappointed her, that was it: game over. Lily was the best of them. It was a responsibility they all resented.

"Take him," Petunia begged, one final time. _Don't make me keep another one_, she said. The words settled like stones in Poppy's stomach. Petunia underwent a morose pregnancy, and some postnatal depression following Dudley's birth.

Maybe…

Poppy thought of the strange dream. Of Lily, begging for help, for her life, then for Harry's. The cold gaze as she told Poppy to go home.

The last words they spoke to each other were in anger. They'd both said things more cutting than either expected. Lily's phantom, at least, didn't regret what she said—she spoke to Poppy like she knew Poppy would disappoint her. _Go home._

There was not much choice at all, really.

"... Okay,"

Petunia barely dared to breathe.

Poppy grabbed her own wrist, fingers on her pulse, a battering ram against her cage of bones. Okay.

"Help me adopt him and set up the place for him and… everything. I'll do it—I'll adopt Harry."

The words just barely left her mouth before Petunia stood with enough force to send her chair clattering to the floor, stormed around the table, and fell onto Poppy desperately. She clutched to her like she'd been drowning and Poppy pulled her from the depths. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," she croaked.

Poppy reluctantly wrapped her arms around Petunia's trembling figure.

"I am not doing it for you," she whispered back. Petunia didn't care; suppose she was used to that. "Get it together, Tuney. There's only the two of us left. Not five. It's all hands on deck. I'll need your help with him."

"Anything," Petunia promised.

* * *

Vernon wasn't Poppy's favourite person in the world, but he was a man who could lift heavy furniture and assemble baby cribs, so Poppy gritted her teeth and allowed him into her home. He criticized it the entire time, being that he was Vernon and that was what he did. Poppy quietly resolved to never invite him over. Only Petunia and Dudley from now on—family dinner could be held at Privet Drive.

When the time came to shoo him out, Poppy did so happily.

Harry's "bedroom" wasn't necessarily _his_. Poppy lived by herself in Hackney, occupying a two-bedroom flat with too many walls and an outdated kitchen. The spare bedroom was a study she hadn't the time to clear out. As a result, Harry's crib was set up beside her double bed, and she'd emptied her two drawers for his newly purchased clothing. Cluttering the floors were stacks of diapers, hastily bought baby toys, and some parenting books.

Poppy sat on her bed reading them. Her boss knew the situation and granted her paid leave for two weeks—not enough, Petunia claimed. It was the likely truth.

Poppy couldn't leave an orphaned one year old by himself while she worked a full shift, and she certainly wasn't about to hire a nanny to look after her magical nephew. Her situation with Cypress meant she would need to change jobs anyway.

She could manage on her savings for… quite a while, surely. Tommy left her—Well, he left her more than enough.

Poppy read as much as she could stomach about regular sleep cycles and transitioning from liquids to solids before she threw the book to the side. Where it landed, she didn't particularly care. She unpacked a couple Fisher-Price toys and set them up in the lounge: she was quickly running out of space in her—_their_ bedroom.

While she was there, Poppy set out her plushest blanket. Babies liked that, right? Rolling around? Did Harry need more stuffed animals? He had about half a dozen, but what if he needed more—

Her tumultuous thoughts were interrupted by a small cry. Nothing intense, not at all like it was at Petunia's, just confused.

Poppy poked her head in. Harry was sitting up, bleary, head swiveling around. He looked lost, upset about being lost, and upset about being upset. A broken warble sounded from deep in his chest.

Poppy cleared her throat, felt a bit silly for that, then stepped into the room proper. "Harry?"

Harry frowned.

"Er, are you hungry?"

"Mummy," said Harry, slurred. He lifted his arms and stuck out his bottom lip. "Up!"

Relieved to be given instructions, Poppy picked him up. Her sister gave her instructions on how to hold someone Harry's age. Support the bottom, hand on their back, easy as pie. By now Harry knew how to be held and could latch onto her front without fear of his head snapping back or anything.

He still felt unbelievably fragile in her arms. Bees buzzed in her skull. God, she couldn't do this.

"Not mummy," she said to the boy, "I'm Aunt Pop. Can you say that? Aunt _Pop_."

Harry stared at her, uncomprehending. Right. Baby.

Babies needed to be fed. She took him to the high chair in the kitchen. As soon as she walked away to prepare his pureed food, he began to fuss. "I'm just making food," explained Poppy.

Harry slammed his hands on the tray of the chair. "No!" He screamed, face rapidly turning red. "No! No! No!"

Poppy couldn't get to him fast enough. "Harry—"

"No!"

In the end, she took him from the chair and sat him on her hip. He sniffled into her shirt as she one-handedly prepared soft enough food for him to eat, and situated himself in her lap to do it. She'd have better luck scrubbing mould with a toothbrush than convincing Harry to let go.

She sat with him on the floor and supervised as he played. That, too, was done with his attention evenly split between the rock-a-sack and her arm, which was under no circumstances allowed to leave his back.

When he grew bored, he stood up and began exploring the home, Poppy as his anxious shadow. She used her height advantage to subtly hold closed the doors he needn't be opening. Harry pushed against them, perplexed, but not yet learned enough to try the round door knobs.

He tromped across the lounge. He seemed fascinated by only the most breakable things in the room: a vase, her glass ashtray, the jewelry box and the contents within. Poppy took them from his hands until he started crying, at which point she returned them but watched very closely. Her nails were bitten down to stubs.

She distracted him for a short time with crayons, and went about quietly putting rubber corner protectors on the tables. While she was at it, she packed away the tablecloth, covered some electric sockets with smooth plastic covers, and pulled out all the knives. She tucked them away into a cupboard, making a mental note to buy a rack for them tomorrow.

Poppy checked on Harry—happily scribbling all over the paper—and prepared seedless grapes for him. He snacked as an afterthought, and eventually grew tired of everything except sitting in Poppy's lap.

The only thing keeping her from being endeared was the truth: Harry warmed up to her so quickly because he thought she was his mum. And why not? She looked like Lily, she sounded like Lily, she treated him no worse than she did.

Poppy just hoped that Harry wouldn't think to miss his dad any time soon.


	3. Chapter 3

The problems started at night. Harry did not want to sleep.

He wailed until he exhausted himself, then slept restlessly against Poppy's chest. She told herself it was because he was in an unfamiliar place. She didn't know how much of that was true.

He was tired and cranky the next day, clingier than before, and didn't want grapes. Poppy cut up strawberries, which he tolerated. For about a minute. Then he threw his plastic bowl across the room.

When the cabinets exploded open, Poppy abruptly remembered: _Oh, right. Wizard._

She calmed him down on the verge of tears herself and let him fall asleep on her, even though she knew he needed to sleep in his own bed. Poppy considered the wooden blocks scattered on the floor, the plastic rings. Lily used to charm teacups into frogs and make their coat rack dance. The wizarding world no doubt had a much more exciting variation of children's toys.

The normal world was not going to measure up.

She wanted to buy something. Anything, really, from that world for Harry to cling to, but she didn't know how to. She was a muggle, she didn't have her own owl—Lily's was always enough between the three of them—and no contacts in the wizarding world.

She knew about King's Cross, sure. Only Lily was able to pass through the barrier. Muggles couldn't.

Poppy sighed heavily, irritated by how effectively the wizarding community isolated itself from hers. How was it that she could know of the existence of magic but that was _it_? The bare minimum of knowledge, barely enough to fit in one hand.

Poppy didn't want to raise Harry as a muggle.

Eventually, she fell into a tentative doze, light enough to wake up if Harry so much as twitched, and long enough to rest her eyes.

Tomorrow, she would call Petunia and see about getting into contact with Albus Dumbledore.

* * *

"_I can't help you."_

"He hasn't sent another owl?"

"_We've fulfilled our use for him. Or—we are fulfilling it. Why are you surprised? You know Dumbledore has never cared about us."_

Poppy shoveled dirt over the ancient bitterness there. "I just needed to ask," she sighed, twirling the phone cord around her finger, "I think he's getting bored."

"_What, your flat isn't quite the glimmer and glam of witchcraft?"_

"Tuney…"

Petunia's huff fuzzed up the line. "_Don't have a cow, I didn't mean it. Ordinary toys are more than enough. You can't have one of your gentlemen callers donate an entire store?"_

"If you're going to be like this the entire time, I will hang up."

Petunia tutted distastefully. "_I was simply saying… How is the dweeb? Behaving, or still asking for a good spanking?"_

"I'm not spanking my nephew," Poppy said coldly, glancing over at Harry. His binky was in his mouth and he was rolling around with some stuffed toys. He seemed particularly taken with the dog, which he called 'Foot' for some reason. "He's doing as well as can be expected from him."

"_I'm sure," _said Petunia, "_In any case, Dudder's and I have been doing much better without him around. Our sleep cycle has righted itself, finally! It feels like we can breathe again."_

Poppy pulled at the cord, eyeing where it attached to the wall. She wondered if she could yank the cord hard enough to end this conversation. It was tempting.

"Well, that is swell for you, Tuney. About… about the other thing…"

Petunia didn't need reminding of what it was. "_How would I know what's happening there? I am not in correspondence with any of those—those freaks. What they're doing with Lily's body is none of our business."_

"You don't care?" Poppy asked, voice raw, hard. "It's her funeral, why can't we be there—"

"_She belongs to them. She's always been theirs. Is it so surprising that she'd be buried as a witch, as far away from us plain normal ones as possible?"_

"For the love of—Lily isn't a thing! She was a person! She was my twin sister, Tuney, forgive me for wanting to be there as she's…" Poppy inhaled sharply; she felt like a kite with its string cut. "It's her _funeral_. I couldn't be there for her wedding, I should at least be able to…"

Petunia's silence was ringingly clear, and extremely judgmental.

"_You were mourning. Lily understood that. You know she never blamed you for not showing up."_

Poppy pressed her lips together harshly.

"_And her funeral—this isn't your choice. The wizards aren't giving you one. Just—can you stop moping and raise her son? Do that. It's the only thing Lily would care about anyway."_

It was true of course. Lily sent photos of her and her husband and their newborn son. Unlike their sister, Lily seemed genuinely happy, and the rare letters exchanged between them had done nothing but gush over Harry. Lily loved her little boy more than life.

Poppy lowered her voice so the baby couldn't hear her: "What if I can't do it?"

"_Lily would never forgive you," _Petunia told her matter-of-factly. It was cruelly detached of her to say so when she broke down at the thought of raising Harry, but right on the money. She knew how Poppy worked, that Poppy needed to do well by her dead twin before anything else.

It always went like that.

It was not going to change any time soon.

Petunia sniffed. "_Take him for a walk. Dudder's likes it. I don't see why yours won't."_

Harry wasn't hers, though Poppy saw no need to say as much when Petunia very well knew that already. "If he's up to it," she murmured. Petunia hummed, dominating the conversation for the next few minutes before hanging up to feed Dudley.

Was this the next decade of Poppy's life? Feeding Harry, rocking him to sleep, changing his diapers and giving him baths? She never saw that for her. She'd never been the type to stay still. Never. But Harry needed stability, so.

So.

* * *

Poppy took him to the park. A mother pushing a pram stopped and, with an apologetic expression, said, "At least he has your eyes, dear."

"What?"

She gestured to Harry's… to all of him. "Those kinds of men have no sense of responsibility. Why, those people… He'll be better off without a savage father around, I assure you!"

Poppy blinked. "His father?"

The pitying look returned. "Godspeed, dear. Raise him better."

She trotted away. Poppy looked down at Harry, wondering what his father had to do—

Her pale hand rested on Harry's knee, dark as the rest of him. She had a brown baby, but was clearly white, respectable enough by everyone else's standards.

If Harry didn't have Lily's eyes… but he did. Regardless, assumptions were being made about Poppy and the baby in her lap.

Harry stuffed his fist in his mouth, surveying the muggy scene. Hackney needed to cut down on the carbon dioxide emissions. He was content, curious, and completely ignorant to the way strangers were looking at him and hating his father.

James Potter was a good man. Lily's soulmate. There was no one else in this lifetime who would love her the way he did, selflessly, completely, patiently.

Poppy smothered the rage building inside of her.

She bounced Harry on her knee, saying quietly, "We'll find a new park, okay?" As soon as possible.

* * *

It took weeks fraught with anxiety for them both before Harry truly settled. In that time, Poppy successfully (she thought) baby proofed everything and was able to buy more stuff for him. So much stuff. She didn't know what she needed so she bought it all.

Petunia helped carry the boxes to her flat and dryly asked if she was "done with her nervous breakdown".

Poppy thought not, but laughed anyway.

Harry was—a good kid. He was a fantastic kid. Obviously he saw what occurred that night and it did something to his mental state, tilted things inside of him a few degrees to the side. But he was good.

Luckily, children were strong. He would recover. He _was _recovering, did so every time he fell asleep around eight pm and woke at seven the next morning; when he ate most of his food, Poppy choked back tears of relief; when he walked around the room pointing at objects in silent demand for names, Poppy happily told him.

Everything. She would give him everything.

It still felt like she was babysitting. He wasn't _hers_ although there were adoption papers to say otherwise. She looked at him and saw Lily, and what she knew of James she found as well.

He was so young. One day, she would look and see herself. Poppy didn't know if she liked that idea.

Poppy tried to take him for walks every week. Harry liked people. If he was cooped up for too long, he got cranky. Poppy, a busybody herself, loved to find excuses to leave the flat.

Hackney was no Paris, but… for now, it would do.

"What?" Harry yelled. He was pointing at a lamp post.

"It's a lamp. Lamp. Can you say that?"

Harry ignored her. He pointed at something else. "What?"

"Post box. Do you remember what letters are?"

"No!" He giggled, "What? What?"

"Er, restaurant. You, er… Eat. That's where you eat."

Harry pointed at his mouth. "Eat?"

"Yeah," said Poppy. Harry pointed harder. She blinked, then: "Oh, tits. You're hungry? Eat?"

"Eat!" Harry agreed, bouncing in his pram. He was satisfied to have some muesli she crushed up in a tupperware container. He went back to pointing at what he didn't recognize—literally _everything_—and having Poppy name them.

They passed more than a few people who smiled at Poppy, then frowned at Harry, looking at her like she'd disappointed their expectations. Poppy wanted to scream. She didn't, barely.

Harry pointed at one such lady, wrinkling her nose like she was smelling something repellent. "What?" Harry asked innocently.

Insults and swears were her knee-jerk reaction. Poppy kicked it. "Mean," she said quietly, the gentlest and broadest answer she felt comfortable giving. The lady was not old—scarcely few years above Petunia, maybe. She caught Poppy's eyes, pursed her lips, and pointedly turned away. "That's mean. We don't like mean, Harry."

"No?" He tried, and the way he said it—completely untouched by the misery Poppy was beginning to feel—shocked her out of her own head. She wanted to laugh, peaked at his innocent face, then did.

Harry giggled along; you didn't need much reason to be happy at his age. Poppy could learn from that.

"Let's get some ice cream," she decided, checking her purse, "What's wrong with early dessert, eh, Harry?"

He got the smallest portion of vanilla possible while Poppy bought mango. He seemed to enjoy hers more, though, so Poppy ended up eating his share. He slobbered all over her spoon.

After wiping him up, they stopped by to watch the ducks.

By all accounts, a good day.

* * *

"It's dreadful what happened to you," Jessamine simpered, wiping her eyes carefully with her hanky, not wanting to smudge her makeup. She sniffled, reaching for her husband's hand: the entwining was slightly awkward as neither were looking at each other.

Indeed, Cypress' eyes were fixed on Poppy, pinning her like a butterfly to a board.

"To lose your sister like that—murder!—why, I can't imagine getting up every morning. Terrible, terrible news. Oh, and the boy!"

'The boy' was at Poppy's feet, studiously interested in slapping his palms into a bowl of water. Simple pleasures, huh?

"It's good of you to take him in like that," Jessamine continued wetly, "When Cypress told me why you weren't coming in, I told him that we _had _to visit. Right away, I said! You poor thing, you must be so lonely!"

Poppy nibbled her biscuit. "It's been busy,"

"I should think so," tittered Jessamine. She wore a golden choker around her neck. Sapphires and diamonds. Poppy would not mind a similar decoration herself. "Have you invited anyone over since the… the incident? Any friends? I'm sure you know mothers who would leap at the opportunity for some play dates."

"I'm not sure," Poppy admitted. She played with a curly tuft of Harry's hair, which he endured quietly. "I don't know who is more anxious between us, truth be told. I worry."

Cypress cleared his throat, eyes darting to the side. As if he thought his staring was subtle, that somehow Poppy was missing half her brain and hadn't noticed. "Then, might it be better for friends to visit your home? If being outside makes you and Harry so anxious…"

Not being outside, and not the talking to strangers. It was the idea of repetition that frightened Poppy. Harry's magical outbursts were triggered by heightened emotion, but not every emotional peak resulted in magic. It was random. She couldn't risk muggles seeing that, not if she was going to meet those muggles again.

Which was not a dilemma easily explained.

"Perhaps," she allowed, and nibbled again. "Would you like more tea, Jessamine?"

"That would be nice, darling,"

Poppy started on another pot. She kept an ear open for Harry; he was being talked at by Jessamine, who was apparently going through some baby fever judging by her desperation to get any reaction from her nephew.

Cypress came up beside her, mouth twisted nervously. "Do you need any help?"

Poppy stared unblinkingly. "With tea?"

"Or more biscuits, or…" He swallowed, looked over his shoulder, and inched closer. _Oh_. "I'm sorry our trip was cut short. I didn't mean to leave it so long. Getting back into contact, I mean. Work, you know?"

"Not anymore. Mr. Howard told you that I intend to quit, yes?"

"Of course he did. That's part of the reason I'm here, Poppy. How do you expect to support Harry without an income?"

"I have money," said Poppy. She checked on the duo in the lounge: thoroughly distracted. "I'm not incapable."

The kettle whistled. Poppy reached for it, and Cypress grabbed her hand before she could. He held her fingers tightly. "I never claimed you were, but looking at your situation…"

The way he trailed off was telling. Meaning her living situation, which was no mansion, her state of unemployment, the murder of her twin sister: either or, his tone implied. Horrible twists of fate that never touched him before, that never would. Cypress bloody Williams was above it all.

"... I would not be opposed to assisting where possible, Poppy,"

Poppy hummed. Thought of Jessamine's necklace. Said, "You are a very generous man, Mr. Williams. Would you really?"

"In a heartbeat," he swore. He brought her knuckles to his lips but did not kiss them: his breath fanned out across her skin intimately, while Poppy smiled around the urge to shudder.

"I'll do my very best to keep it in mind."

Jessamine called, "Poppy, darling, I believe that kettle is _quite _boiled! Love, what on earth are you two doing in there?"

Cypress drew away from her like he'd been burnt. Poppy silenced the kettle, filling up the pot with the hot water while Cypress busied himself piling afghans on a plate. "Sorry, Jessamine! We were just chatting!"

Poppy scoffed to herself at the flimsy excuse, knowing that Jessamine wouldn't think to question it. Cypress carried the plate of biscuits to the lounge; she heard a wet smack. A kiss.

Jessamine sounded quietly flustered when she said, "Oh, you have afghans. I love these."

"I know, my love," said Cypress. Respectable indeed.

Poppy took the new pot to her guests. Jessamine thanked her kindly. "You're welcome," she replied. Jessamine was holding her husband's hand, their twin bands sparkling in the low light. The wife was smiling contently, and the husband, when Poppy thought to look, was already staring back.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry Potter was standing on a fence, his nose filled with the scent of grass and dung, happier than ever. He was seven today. For his birthday, Aunt Pop took him to the city farm to watch the animals. If he was good, he would be allowed to pet them. Only if they wanted it, of course. Right now, Harry was watching a flock of sheep graze the field.

Aunt Pop promised he could play with piggies next. He hoped so. Sheep were boring: they did barely anything, and they didn't even make sounds!

"This is worse than horses," said Harry miserably. Aunt Pop laughed, dragging her fingers through his hair.

"They're tired, Harry. And they're sheep. What did you think sheep got up to?"

Harry shrugged. How was _he _supposed to know? "Exciting things. Fun things. I thought they _baa_-ed? You said sheep _baa_, but these sheep aren't doing anything!"

"When you're sleepy, you don't do much either," Aunt Pop reminded him. She sighed, helping him jump from the fence. He clutched her hand tightly, knowing better than to stray from her when they were in public. Last time had been very strange. "Alright—wanna pet the goats or stop by the pig pens?"

"We can pat goats here?"

"The babies, yes,"

"I wanna pat some goats!"

"If you say so…"

Harry petted goats. He sat in the hay with his palms out, full of food for the babies to eat, and sat there practically vibrating with joy as he was snuggled. Aunt Pop waited a short distance away. She wore a weary smile, pleased now that Harry seemed to be enjoying the outing.

Amanda, the keeper of the goats, eventually ushered Harry out of the pen. "He's wonderful with them," she said to his aunt. "Your son is a kind soul, ma'am,"

Aunt Pop looked pained. "Thank you," she replied politely. Harry pursed his lips at the goat keeper. Suddenly, she wasn't as great. Couldn't she tell that Aunt Pop was his _aunt_? "Did you have fun, Harry?"

Harry nodded his head furiously. He showed his aunt his dirty hands. Mud and fur flung to them, his fingernails literally black. And one mustn't forget the smell clinging to his clothes. "Uh-huh! Piggies now!"

"What's the magic word?"

"_Pleaaaseee_?"

Aunt Pop smoothed her hand over his head again. She liked doing that. She said it was because Harry had a lot of hair where Aunt Pop didn't, and his was so thick and lovely—of course she played with it. It was so fun to play with! It wasn't so annoying. Unless it was in the schoolyard, then his aunt was not allowed to go near his hair.

"We might be able to catch it before it closes…" Harry bounced on his toes. Aunt Pop chuckled at his eagerness and held out her hand. "Remember the rules—"

Harry did. He wasn't _stupid. _

But before he could tell her, someone from behind him said loudly, "So _this _is the muggle world. Horatia, isn't it quaint? Are these their little creatures? They're adorable. Look, no sharp teeth! How marvelous!"

It was a man in an emerald robe. Atop his head was a comically large pointed hat. He was talking to his companion, some pale woman in a matching green gown. She was not wearing a hat, and her gloved hand was pinching her nose. She didn't look nearly as charmed as her friend. She stepped carefully, afraid of getting poop on her heeled shoes.

"As expected from their kind. This is ghastly. Lawrence, why are we here?"

"To see the sights," answered the portly man, gleeful. "Behold, my dear! Don't you see them muddling about?"

"I do. They're, ugh, they are muggles. Lawrence, this is truly an unbecoming use of my _very rare _free time. I never should have accepted your invitation out."

"Marvel at them, Horatia, please—"

Aunt Pop grabbed Harry by his shoulders and twisted him around so he wasn't blatantly gawking at the odd couple. Her mouth was twisted like she'd bitten into a sour lemon. "It isn't polite to stare, my boy,"

Her hands flitted about his face anxiously. Harry said, "Are they… you know…"

_Wizards? _He didn't finish.

"What do you think?" She murmured wryly. "Best get a move on, eh?"

"Because they'll re-cog-nise me?"

"Yes."

You see, Harry had a secret. Like the arguing adults in their strange clothes, he was a wizard. No, really. He'd been doing magic since he was just a baby. His aunt said he was doing it as long as she'd known him, which was _forever_. There was an entire world of magic out there, but Aunt Pop couldn't find it, and neither could Harry. He wouldn't be able to until his eleventh birthday.

Harry's parents were dead. His teacher told him he was an "orphan". His parents were wizards, too, and went to a school full of magicians to learn how to do magic proper. People knew them. People liked them a lot. Aunt Pop said that people knew Harry, too, and liked him _more_. He was _famous_.

Sometimes, when wizards left their world and interacted with Harry's, they saw him and recognised him. It was never fun. They got into his face and bowed and kissed his hands—ugh, it was the worst! One of them _cried_. Another tried to take Harry "back to where he belonged". Aunt Pop beat that one with her purse. Now they avoided wizards altogether.

"It'll be better when they're your age," Aunt Pop assured him. She was flushed as she said it, sweaty from the effort of hitting some stranger with her bag. Harry really didn't believe her.

The couple began to argue louder. Harry said, "We should leave before they see me."

Aunt Pop's eyes softened. She guided Harry to walk in front of her so there was no way for them to catch the slightest glimpse of him. "Okay, Harry, let's go see the piggies."

* * *

Harry did not like Aunt Petunia's house.

"It's so _tidy_," he moaned. His home was constantly messy. Nothing had its place. But messy didn't mean unclean: their flat always smelled of fresh pine and lemons from Aunt Pop's cleaning products.

"That's Tuney," said Aunt Pop bemusedly.

"She smacked me upside the head because I ran over her flowerbed," said Harry with a pout.

Aunt Pop looked at him. There was no humour in her face. "When was this?" Harry told her it happened the last time he slept over. Her bright eyes sharpened. "Let me know if it happens again, Harry."

"Sure," answered Harry. It seemed fair enough.

When they arrived at house number four, Dudley answered the door. Harry's cousin was not the brightest crayon in the box, and to make matters worse, he didn't even have a tolerable personality to make up for it. He was rotten to the core. But he always owned the best toys, so Harry stayed his tongue.

Dudley lifted his pig nose up. "About time you got here," spoke Dudley with his trademark entitlement, "Hurry up! I have the new Sega Genesis! Mummy says we can play until it's time for dinner!"

Harry mentally tried to ask Aunt Pop to make up an excuse for him to not be around Dudley for the next hour. She smiled blankly in reply, "Have fun," she pushed him forward—right into the hungry maws of the wolves.

Dudley latched onto his arm with no intention of easing his grip. Harry glared, either at him or his aunt, he couldn't say. "Whatever you want, Dudders," Harry barely retained his patience.

"Don't call me that," Dudley snapped, pulling Harry upstairs.

"I'll try to remember."

"You always say that," he huffed.

Harry knew that. "Sega Genesis?" He prompted, aware that Dudley's favourite conversations were usually about himself. He wasted no time launching into a gripping tale about how his father bought him the game the minute it came out as a reward for Dudley's good behaviour. Uncle Vernon was slightly loopy, Harry was abruptly reminded. Dudley's wouldn't bow for the Queen of England. What manners could his dad have seen? They didn't exist.

Dudley only owned the one controller for his console, and he was _not _interested in sharing. Unsurprised, Harry started playing solitaire with an old deck of cards.

"Isn't it awesome?" Dudley would ask. Harry made sure to say, "Wow, D, that's incredible," every time. His voice did not rise or fall with any emotion whatsoever, but Dudley didn't seem to care about that.

Aunt Petunia knocked on their door around quarter to eight for dinner. Harry sprinted out of the room, relieved to be free from Dudley.

The adults were already at the table, Aunt Petunia dishing out the food. Dudley slid into his seat and Harry sat next to his guardian, who greeted him with a dry, "Did you do what I told you?"

"I scraped by,"

"Good of you," she hummed, turning her plastic smile onto her sister. "Looks delicious, Tuney."

Aunt Petunia sent Aunt Pop a dark look. She did not say a word. Harry leaned in and whispered, "Did something happen?"

"We chatted a little," Aunt Pop said back, not bothering to whisper; speaking around a mouth full of teeth. Petunia flinched. "Don't worry about it. Duds, how is school? Your dad tells me you got an award."

Harry saw it framed in Dudley's toy room. He muttered under his breath— "It's for _participating_," and was pinched for it.

Dudley beamed. Uncle Vernon cheerfully bragged about his son. Aunt Petunia, he noted, was quiet the entire evening, her silence interspersed with furious glares at her younger sister.

* * *

"He has your eyes."

"I'm his aunt," Poppy corrected; and before she can be _looked_ at, she followed with— "His mother and I were twins."

The past tense came easily after years of living as one half of the puzzle. Harry asked every now and then what his mother was like, how she was as a child, if she was a good witch. Poppy tried to keep up, but in the end she confessed that she didn't know any more about who Lily was than her nephew. No clue.

_What would Lily do?_

A question Poppy asked herself on an almost daily basis. Would Lily take away Harry's gameboy? Would Lily send him to his room after he shattered a family heirloom? Would she make Harry clean his peanut butter from the telly? How would Lily parent her son, and was Poppy doing her proud?

It was a pointless question. Poppy wouldn't know. That's the thing about being estranged with your twin—it was like forgetting your own bloody name. Apart of your identity for your entire life, so how could you not know it? Lily-the-witch was not Lily-the-sister, and infinitely more real for it.

She was a stranger to Poppy. Who knew how she could parent her kid? She left Harry to—

No.

She left—

_No_.

Lily died. And now Harry was Poppy's family. Raising him was her duty and privilege—

So yes, Harry was grounded. Antiques were not bloody replaceable.

* * *

Charles Baldwin sat two seats away from Harry. He was an arch looking fellow with strong features and light colouring, hair to skin to eyes. He was also, Harry thought with vicious satisfaction, plugging his nostrils with tissues to keep blood from getting on his cashmere sweater. He'd gotten himself punched. By Harry, in fact.

The prat deserved it.

Hawthorne Works was a private school Aunt Pop's boyfriend paid the way to. He handled the fees, the uniform costs, and the stationery. Even excursions were handled by her boyfriend. Aunt Pop called it desperation. Harry thought it convenient. Neither minded too much.

Aunt Pop's boyfriends would do anything for her good favour, including getting her nephew through elementary school. "I didn't know they did private schooling for ten year olds," Aunt had said.

"Reckon they'll give me lunch?"

"For the fee they're asking, I'm expecting gourmet corned beef sandwiches and caviar."

Hawthorne Works did provide their students with lunch. On the flip side, they mass produced utter berks who begged to have their mouths punched, and Harry was never one to betray expectation. His peers thought he was unhinged—_fine_. The next time they said it, they'd do it without their front teeth.

Charles Baldwin sneered, "You're a freak, Potter," the sound nasally. His eye was swelling already.

Harry gripped his tattered patience. "Want me to blacken the other one, do you?" Charles scoffed, but didn't snipe back.

Harry was holding ice to his bruised cheekbone when the mother's and one father arrived. The Baldwins beelined for their son, who began to groan as if in great distress, abandoning all dignity at the drop of a hat. Behind the cookie-cutter couple was Aunt Pop, red hair flying about her face, expression raw with worry.

It didn't ease in the slightest once she laid eyes on him. In a heartbeat Aunt Pop was in front of Harry, her soft hands turning his head so she could examine his face. She looked torn apart.

Harry swallowed. His stomach twisted, at least three quarters of his righteous anger leaving him at the sight of her. "I… sorry, Aunt Pop,"

Aunt Pop's shoulders came up around her ears; she let go of him to wrap her hand around her own wrist, a nervous gesture she'd had since she was young. "What happened, Harry?"

"Nothing."

"You broke someone's nose over _nothing_?"

"I knocked loose some teeth, too," he added. "But—yeah, nothing. Baldwin's just a momentous git."

Charles Baldwin hissed back, "Shove off, Potty,"

"Muppet."

"Plonker."

"_Charlie_!" gasped Mrs. Baldwin, while Mr. Baldwin eyed Harry with great suspicion. "Miss, I implore you to leash your son—"

"Shut up, you numpty woman," Aunt Pop snapped. She refocused on Harry as if he was the only person in the room. "It's not like you to lose your temper—_like this_," she stressed once Harry raised his eyebrows doubtfully, "Did he do something? Say anything? Please tell me it was self defense…"

"I hit him first," Harry confessed. He considered, then continued, "Honestly I still want to punch him. You're a prat, Baldwin."

Charles Baldwin went red around the ears. Mrs. Baldwin sounded scandalized when she gasped, and further offended when Aunt Pop glared her into keeping quiet. "You are so grounded," she whispered to Harry, pulling him into a hug that made his bones creak.

Headmaster McKenna opened the door to his office tiredly, not looking at either parent as he drawled, "Come on in."

The Baldwins marched like soldiers. One look at Aunt Pop assured Harry that he didn't need to worry. She wasn't going down without a fight.


	5. Chapter 5

The drive home was quiet. Dinner, too, as Harry took it to his room and ate with the door closed. It wasn't until after she showered that Aunt Pop visited him with the obvious intention of talking.

Harry sighed, covering his head with his pillow. "I would rather not," He said.

"Too bad," said Aunt Pop. She sat at the foot of the bed. "The kid said you teleported, Harry. You don't wanna have a chat about why you can't teleport at school?"

"No," Harry huffed, sound muffled. He removed the pillow and glared at the ceiling. "He started it. Not my fault."

She held her thumb and index finger slightly apart. "It's a little bit your fault, kiddo, be realistic."

Mullish silence answered her. Aunt Pop sighed. "Harry…"

"What."

"What did he say to you?"

Harry didn't want to answer. His aunt stared patiently. _I can wait here all night,_ her face seemed to say. Harry grabbed his quilt tightly. Thinking made him angry again when he didn't want to be. Not at home.

"He said," Harry closed his eyes, "that my dad was… that he deserved being… because he was—I don't want to say it, alright?"

Aunt Pop got the jist of it. Her eyes sparked to life with fury, "You know your dad was a good man."

Harry snapped, "_I _know that."

She inhaled sharply. "Alright. So. You hit him for it?" she was neutral.

"He said some rubbish about you and mum as well. I told him—er, that the only reason he would be able to tell the difference between twins is because _his_ parents are siblings, and that's when he tried to hit me, and suddenly I was on the roof. When he said that stuff about dad, I jumped off to punch him."

Aunt Pop tapped her fingers against her pulse. Tap, tap, tap. It was faster than usual. "They're brother and sister?"

Her lip was curled. Harry said, "I'm pretty sure his parents are second cousins, actually, he's sensitive about being an inbred git, so…"

"He does have a funny looking chin, doesn't he?"

"Has webbed feet as well. Proper strange."

"Really? Odd."

"Half the school has weird stuff like that going on," Harry said carelessly.

"That checks out," Aunt Pop laughed slightly. She exhaled heavily and inched up beside Harry, close enough now to pet his hair. "Not as weird as being magic, though, is it?"

Harry was unimpressed, repeating, "Webbed toes!" in a particular kind of voice.

Aunt Pop laughed for real this time. Harry watched it happen feeling quite proud of himself. Once she regained her breath, she leaned over and kissed his forehead, right where the scar was. "You're a good kid, Harry. You get that from both your parents. And I… I have no doubt your dad would've been proud of you. For this. For why."

Harry chewed his bottom lip. "And what about you?"

"Me, too. Of course."

"... Okay,"

She smiled tenderly, "You are still _very _much grounded for deliberately using magic in public, young man."

Harry groaned. "I—figured as much, yeah… but what's this about 'deliberate'? Accidental magic—"

"You did not do it accidentally," Aunt Pop cut him off flatly, "I know you did it so the boy would sound barking mad in the headmaster's office. Harry, I do live with you. I know all your tricks."

Harry crossed his arms. "I don't know what you mean."

"Take it to your grave, kid, see if I care. But I know. And you are still not going out for about a month. Maybe less if you're on your best behaviour."

Harry saw no point in arguing. He did grin, though, because— "To be perfectly clear: you're punishing me for allegedly using my magic on purpose, right, not for punching Charles Baldwin in his no-good, lying mouth?"

"There is no alleged about it."

That was a _yes_. "Got it."

"You are impossible to live with. Grounded, did you hear? One month. There is a statute of secrecy, Harry, I do wish you paid mind to it."

"Night, Auntie."

"Oh, tits. I—good _night_, Harry. Don't do it again."

* * *

"Who even taught you how to throw a punch like that?" She mused the next day over breakfast.

Harry hesitated, before admitting, "Six."

"Sterling Fordyce?" Aunt Pop blinked, startled. Harry barely recognised the name. Her boyfriends were just numbers at this point. "How—why on earth—since when… _When_?"

"He was trying to make conversation. I think you were getting your coat?"

"So he taught you how to throw a punch," Aunt Pop sounded stunned. "Thank Christ I dumped him. What a loser. Oh my god."

"All your boyfriends are losers," said Harry wisely.

"Good thing I don't date them because they're cool, huh."

"Nah, you date them because they're rich and you don't want to go to work."

Aunt Pop squinted at his implacable face. "Sit there and eat your toast, Harold."

* * *

Aunt Pop put on her earrings standing under Harry's doorway. Her hair was braided into a crown, too short for anything else. She'd grown sick of people touching it and cut the riotous locks so they framed her face. Months later, it had finally grown to her shoulders.

She wouldn't linger if she didn't have something to say. Harry drummed his pencil against the quilt, waiting impatiently.

"Dinner's in the oven," she started, "you alright to handle heating it up?"

"If you come back to a burned down building, you'll know the answer," replied Harry.

She finished fiddling with the earring, smoothing her hands down the front of her brown dress. Sleeveless, plunging neckline, pleated skirt. Understated for what Aunt Pop usually wore, neck completely bare. Her style changed according to what her current boyfriend wanted in a partner. This one, it seemed, wanted modest but classy.

"How do I look?"

"Not like you raised your ten year old nephew."

She beamed at him. "That's what I was going for. Are you going to do your homework all night?"

Harry raised his eyebrow. It would _not_ take that long. "I dunno. What are my other options? I know arson is on the table, so you can skip that one."

"Well, do you want to invite someone over?"

"Er… it isn't likely. Why? Do you want me to?"

"You've never had a friend over before," Aunt Pop mused.

"What about Johnny?"

"You invited Jonathan Young to the flat so you could find out if he liked that girl… what was she called? Saffron? Jasmine?"

_Yasmin_, thought Harry. She was the new girl at the time. "He still came over," he muttered lowly, slightly offended. He hadn't interrogated Johnny for himself. It'd been in the interest of another mate, all for naught when it came out that Yasmin Court's parents forbade her from dating. Her weekly allowance was threatened if she was caught with a boy.

"I might invite Eddie?"

Aunt Pop looked approving. "You should get out more. Open yourself up. You can make lifelong friends in elementary, Harry."

"Did you?"

She gave him an unamused face. "_Try_ please. It's no good isolating yourself."

There was no point. Harry was a wizard, the only one he knew. Hogwarts was a boarding school for magical beings that would swallow him up—no more muggles. His peers were temporary. The only people who would and have stayed were family. Why did Harry need to extend his hand to others when he was destined to leave?

"I will. Have fun, auntie. Bring me back something."

"It's only dinner,"

"A breadstick, then."

* * *

"Tuney!"

"What? _What_? I'm busy with the potatoes, Pops, can't you—"

Petunia deigned to turn away from the tray of vegetables. Poppy stood by the sinks, casually leaning with her elbow balanced on her wrist. Dangling from her fingers was a wishbone. Petunia blinked, startled.

Poppy sent her a lopsided smile. "Wanna go?"

Petunia grudgingly wiped her hands, coming closer. "I was looking for it. I feared that maybe Vernon found it and threw it away…"

"I dug it out to give it time to dry."

She looked like Poppy had dragged her up there at gunpoint. "Remember when we did this with mum and dad?"

Poppy said, "Mum was rubbish at it."

"So was I." Petunia didn't have the energy to sound bitter about such a fond time. The sisters wrapped their pinkies around the bone. The first pull resulted in slippery mishaps, so Poppy wiped the bone and their pinkies before trying again. This time, the bone cracked in half.

Poppy held the larger part. She began laughing as Petunia harrumphed and threw out her pathetic half. "Still a loser, I see!"

"It isn't even real," Petunia huffed.

"But you play every year regardless," Poppy teased. "Have you ever actually won before? I don't think it's happened!"

"1969. Christmas. Uncle was over—he lost to me."

"Blimey, do you know the exact time as well?"

"Around six thirty, I think," Petunia confessed, and even she knew this was a new league of petty because she laughed too. "I'll win next time. Cheat."

"Sore loser."

Petunia tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Let's just—finish packing away the food so we can open the presents. My little Dudders is getting antsy waiting for us to finish."

"I know a way to get it done quicker," Poppy muttered, calling: "BOYS! Get in here now and help us with the food!"

* * *

"Auntie."

"Yes?"

"Why did you send me to a Catholic school when Exodus 22:18 says you should kill sorceress'? Isn't that blasphemous?"

Aunt Pop turned to the funnies of her newspaper, unmoved. "You're a sorcer_er_. Far as I know, that means you're permitted to live as long as you like."

"But—"

"I'm not speaking anymore on the subject, my dear."


	6. Chapter 6

7:07 AM, JULY 24

Poppy sat cross-legged against her sofa, the radio crooning gently the rasping vocals of jazz singers. Her hair was piled on top of her head tucked away in a soft towel, her face slathered in an avocado face mask. She was still in her nightgown and was painting her toenails lavender. At her hip was a bowl of veggies—cucumbers, carrot sticks, celery and the like. Poppy enjoyed the occasional pampering done by herself. Much cheaper this way.

She was currently undergoing a transitional period. Poppy Evans, as of last night, was single again. Her partner's affair had been discovered by his wife, and the lovely woman called Poppy to tell her in vivid detail how lacking in self-respect she must be to involve herself with a married man. Quite the spectacle. So yes, untethered.

For that reason, Poppy greeted the morning happily. She was well-rested. Her bank account was not empty and wouldn't be for a long while. She could go around as an old spinster for several months before needing some idiot man to feed her piggy bank.

The thought of all that time was alarming. Months. In one week, Harry would be turning eleven. If memory served, Hogwarts started in September. He would be enrolling very soon. Poppy had already withdrew him from Hawthorne Works.

There was no doubt where Harry would be going for school. Not after he transfigured poor Jackson Blythe's backpack into a dozen rats just the other day.

Her nephew had trouble understanding what the word 'accidental' mean. If he did it on purpose, it was _not accidental magic_. Poppy suspected he knew perfectly well what he was doing, but was counting on the magic-government to keep their noses out of it until he was of age.

Little brat. He thought he was slick.

Poppy brushed the polish over her nails, capped the bottle, and blew until it dried. The clock flicked onto seven-fifteen. Harry would wake up soon: he always was an early riser. She started on her other foot.

Harry's return to consciousness was obvious by the thudding sounds from his room. He had a habit of stretching above his head and hitting the wall when he woke up. His growth spurt would be amusing, knowing how forgetful he could be about his limbs already. He tumbled out with all the grace of a newborn gazelle, hair untidy, wiping his glasses on his cotton sleep shirt.

Poppy grinned as much as she could without cracking her mask. "Good morning!"

Harry blearily mumbled in response. He went for the kitchen and put on some crumpets. The kettle flicked on; "I'll have one," Poppy called, and could have laughed when Harry sighed heavily. She heard two mugs being placed on the counter. Good boy.

Once he was finished preparing his breakfast and their tea, he sat next to her to eat. Harry liked to drown his crumpets in syrup and butter. Hopefully wizards had dentists. "How was your sleep?"

He sleepily bit into his crumpet. "Fine. Yours?"

"Excellent. Do you have any plans? Dudley is going to the zoo for his birthday, I'm sure your aunt would take you along if you asked."

His nose wrinkled distastefully. He seemed offended to be asked. "I'm good, thanks. How long have you been up?"

Poppy tilted her hand a few times. A while, the gesture implied. Or even—not long. It was up to Harry to decide. Poppy had been awake for several hours now, actually, but that was neither here nor there. "Should we go out today? Get lunch in the city?"

"That depends."

"On?"

"Who is going."

Poppy bit down on celery and said, "Just us."

Harry's lips turned up at the corners. The tea was waking him up; he was more alert, stealing several bits of carrot from her little snack bowl. Eleven, soon. Poppy remembered when he needed her to change his diapers. It was oddly fulfilling to have him at her side, cheeky and boyish, eating his vegetables without needing to be bribed.

She felt like she hadn't gone out with him in some time. Poppy would like to. They could drive into the dreary city and wander the streets, not lost, just looking at everything. She hadn't gone overseas in years—but it was hard to be angry when she could explore London with Harry like tourists. She was sure there were parts of her home she hadn't seen. Why not discover it with her nephew?

"Alright," Harry murmured. He was eyeing Poppy's toes quizzically, like he was contemplating some deep thought that would not leave him alone. After some silence, Harry asked, "Can I have some?"

He was looking at the bottle of nail polish. "Of this?" Poppy clarified, holding it up. Harry, frown in place, nodded hesitantly.

Oh. That was a surprise. At a loss, Poppy simply said, "Okay. Want a face mask too?"

Harry hesitated. "Yeah, why not?" He shrugged as if it was no big deal. Poppy supposed it wasn't. He was a wizard. Wearing nail polish and having avocado on his face wasn't the strangest thing Harry was about to be apart of

"You better shower first. I'm not touching your smelly feet until they've been scrubbed." Harry rolled his eyes hard enough to hurt, but did, in fact, go for a shower. Just as well. Poppy was not bluffing.

* * *

After an afternoon of shopping, Harry was the proud owner of several new coats, shoes, and slacks. He'd also discovered some records of rock bands Poppy didn't particularly understand. Well, as long as he was happy. She tried to persuade him into buying new earrings but her nephew wasn't having it. He'd owned the same silver sleepers since he'd gotten his ears pierced years ago, and evidently was not interested in changing that.

Poppy sent him upstairs with half the bags as she checked the post box for their flat, 739. There were bills, coupons, and a letter for Harry. There was his full name handwritten along with the address, the flat number, and which bedroom he lived in. Eerily specific information. Poppy was unnerved.

She flipped the envelope: it was sealed with wax. The wax was stamped with Hogwarts' coat of arms.

Bloody _hell_.

"Already?" Poppy clenched her fingers automatically, before the thought of crinkling the contents made her loosen her hold. Harry deserved a pristine letter. "But it's—"

No. Lily's letter had arrived months before her birthday.

Suddenly, it was harder to breathe. Her throat shrunk to a pinhole. It was one thing to know Harry would be leaving and another entirely to hold the very thing that would call him away.

_This is the world that murdered my twin, _Poppy thought, and stopped in horror at the thought. _This is the world Harry belongs to. This is everything I have raised him in preparation for._

He knew all that she did. The Dark lord, his fame, the protection Lily's sacrifice granted him. Hogwarts would teach him _more_. It was a school. He was safe. Like sending him to Hawthorne Works. Probably safer, actually, if Lily's tales of skin-colour based racism not existing were truth.

Harry was waiting for his letter.

Poppy smoothed out the wrinkles she'd created. Pristine. Perfect. Just like every other wizard kid.

Poppy entered the flat. She walked to the kitchen table where Harry was sorting through today's buys. He didn't look up so she placed the letter in front of him.

Harry pushed up his glasses, forgetting entirely to blink. His body went rigid.

He lifted his head and pinned her in place with his vibrant eyes. Harry searched Poppy's face in search of an answer. Poppy gazed back steadily. He must have found what he needed, because he put the trousers aside and picked up the letter. Harry's fingers shook until he remembered to steady them.

"My letter," he said. He had a tell, the soft tapping against the envelope. Subconscious. He picked it up from her. She didn't doubt that he was tapping to the war drums of his own pulse.

Poppy emptied her lungs of fear and anxiety and sat beside him. "Open it."

Harry opened the letter. Two pieces of parchment fell out.

"Dear Mr. Potter, we are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Harry read, his voice shaking from excitement, "Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Terms begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July."

"Oh my god."

In a similar state of shock, Harry continued, "Yours sincerely, Minerva McGonagall… Deputy Headmistress."

Harry dropped the parchment and leaned back in his seat. He threw his glasses on the table and covered his face with his hands. "Are you having a meltdown, Mr. Wizard?" Poppy asked. She skimmed the other paper, which was just a booklist. Harry didn't say a word.

It had to be a lot for him to take in. Harry waited for this moment his entire life. He knew the stories; what his parents did, who they were. To be going to the same school they were was realistically the closest Harry could possibly feel to their memory.

"Are you okay?" Poppy gently prodded. Harry's head moved up and down like a bobble-head. "We should go out tonight to celebrate."

His eyes cut to her sharply. "We already went out." His hands curled around his purchases possessively. Harry was conscientious of money due to the constant comparison between him and the other boys at Hawthorne Works; none of it rubbed off on Poppy, fortunately, but it was Harry's own unique quirk.

"We can go out again," Poppy soothed him. She grabbed his hand. "It's not everyday a young man receives his Hogwarts letter. Let's have dinner."

"But I…"

"Harry."

Harry twisted to face her completely. His expression cracked open. After raising him Poppy had a preternatural instinct for when Harry was going to cry, like an old injury aching before it rained.

"Do you think—" Harry started. He tried three times before he could spit it out. "Do you think—be honest, okay?—that my mum and dad would be proud? That I'm in?"

Poppy didn't need to think on it. "Of course! I can't believe you would doubt it, Harry."

His lip trembled.

"And what about you?"

Poppy wasn't sure how she would survive a year without her nephew underfoot, if she was capable. The loneliness would be a crushing constant; Poppy's immoral lifestyle meant she didn't have many friends, and obviously a romantic connection was out of the picture considering Poppy's knee-jerk instinct for infidelity. Her nephew was her strongest tether to this city; now unearthed, his sights set on a brighter, magical horizon. It would be easy to let the fissure in her chest split open and grow into a black hole.

Easy was for Petunia.

"My boy," she sighed, threading her fingers in his hair. Harry dragged his seat closer until he was able to rest his head on her shoulder. The fissure shrunk just a little bit smaller. "Oh, Harry. I am immeasurably proud of everything you do, but when it comes to your happiness—it's mine, too. That's what parents are for. There's a piece of my heart somewhere inside of you, that feels what you feel. Every tiny thing."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, Harry. So do me a favour and trust me when I tell you I couldn't be happier, Harry, and I've certainly _never_ been prouder."

* * *

/\

* * *

A/N: And that's all they wrote. Which house do you think Harry would be sorted into?


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